


a tale of two lovers

by fallofrain



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: 18th Century, Canon Compliant, Daemons, F/M, His Dark Materials Inspired, Non Consensual Daemon Touching, i hope you guys like long author's notes, non-graphic description of rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 00:19:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17970845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallofrain/pseuds/fallofrain
Summary: An 18th century reimagining of Claire and Jamie, set in Philip Pullman’s “His Dark Materials” universe where humans have daemons. A collection of canon-compliant missing moments from the beginning of the series onwards.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Quick note: this fic is an 18th century reimagining of Claire and Jamie, set in Philip Pullman’s “His Dark Materials” universe where humans have daemons. I pulled the Wiki description of daemons for anyone who isn’t familiar with the series.
> 
>  
> 
> _Dæmons are the external physical manifestation of a person's 'inner-self' that takes the form of an animal. Dæmons have human intelligence, are capable of human speech—regardless of the form they take—and usually behave as though they are independent of their humans. Prepubescent children's dæmons can change form voluntarily to become any creature, real or imaginary. During their adolescence a person's dæmon undergoes "settling", an event in which that person's dæmon permanently and involuntarily assumes the form of the animal which the person most resembles in character._
> 
>    
>  _Although dæmons mimic the appearance and behaviour of the animals they resemble perfectly, dæmons are not true animals, and humans, other dæmons, and true animals are able to distinguish them on sight._
> 
>  
> 
> _Dæmons frequently interact with each other in ways that mirror the behaviour of their humans, such as fighting one another when their humans are fighting, or nuzzling one another when their humans embrace, and such contact between dæmons is unremarkable._
> 
>  
> 
> _"The worst breach of etiquette imaginable" is for a human to touch another person's dæmon; though there are exceptions (such as between lovers or in particularly violent fights). The physical handling of a dæmon causes vulnerability and weakness in the person whose dæmon is being touched._
> 
>    
>  _Normally, a person and their dæmon must stay within a few yards of each other. Such separation from one's dæmon causes extreme pain and distress for both human and dæmon, and, given enough distance, results in death. ___

2 May 1743

 

“Run, run,” Luthiel gasps. He is bounding ahead of her, sleek coat blending almost perfectly with the underbrush. They skid to a stop when their speed almost sends them tumbling down a hill. Claire crouches in the dirt and presses her back against a tree. More shots ring out overhead, and they flinch.

“What in the bloody _hell-_ ”

“Hush.” Luthiel is upright in her lap, nose twitching. “There’s someone close.”

The noise

(gunfire? Surely not _real_ )

dies down, and Luthiel hops out of her lap and leads the way. The trees seem different somehow, greener, softer, and now the quiet is absolute.

The close-packed trees open into a clearing with a pool in the centre, but her attention is taken by the man crouching at the water’s edge, hands submerged in the clear water.

“Frank,” she blurts, and he turns. He’s wearing an old-fashioned soldier’s uniform, the red startling surrounded by lush green. He cocks his head inquisitively, and Luthiel hisses, backing up until he collides with her calves.

“Look,” he says, and she is lost for a moment, until she sees the albino baboon a few feet away from Frank, head cocked at the same inquisitive angle. Frank’s daemon is a king quail.

“You’re not Frank,” she says.

“No,” he agrees. “Jonathan Wolverton Randall.”

He sounds like Frank when he speaks, trying to get information out of her, and she sees the flicker in his jaw that signifies anger in Frank a moment before he lunges for her. She tries to dart away, but he has a warrior’s reflexes and catches her before she gets too far. The baboon grabs Luthiel at the same moment the man bears her towards the rock, the stone scraping at her bare skin.

She is focusing all her energy on the increasingly futile effort of fighting him off, when there is a crunching sound and then Jack Randall is gone. Someone grabs her to her feet and pulls her behind a tree, and she has just enough time to turn and see Luthiel held in the stranger’s daemon’s jaws by the scruff of his neck, swinging limply, before there is a sharp pain at the back of her head and the world goes black.  


*

 

“I’m telling ye, she’s no’ a hoor.” Her erstwhile saviour and now-kidnapper gestures wildly at her, and all the men stare doubtfully. She wants to pick Luthiel up and press him to her, wants the comfort, but these men are are scenting her for any hint of weakness, and she will not give it to them. So she stands tall, and Luthiel crouches at her feet, teeth slightly bared.

“Weel, hoor or not, she canna be left here.” The man who speaks plainly the leader. He appraises her again, and the hawk on his shoulder flutters his wings once. He nods.

“We’ll take her wi’ us,” he says. “Her and yon wee weasel willna be much trouble.”

“He’s a mongoose,” she says sharply, the first words she’s spoken in a while. She resolves not to speak again when they laugh.

“I dinna ken what geese look like in England,” the leader says, “but that’s no’ what they look like in Scotland.” He smiles, and she realises he’s baiting her.

_Don’t_ , Luthiel thinks sharply, sensing that her seconds-long resolve is already weakening. _They have swords, for God’s sake_. She keeps silent, and instead watches as they all ignore her and focus on the young man sitting by the fire, sitting half in darkness, hunched over as if he is tired, or in great pain. It soon becomes clear that their ignorance is going to cripple the young man and the last of her resolve flies out of the window.

“Stop!” she says, her matron voice coming back as if she is still in a military tent, and the men are shocked enough to obey her, moving back and allowing her to examine the injury.

The young man is larger than he had looked when hunched over, but he is quiet and respectful, allowing her to skim her fingers over his shoulder to get an idea of exactly how bad the dislocation is. Luthiel moves off from under her feet and disappears underneath the stool the man is sitting on, deftly avoiding his legs.

“My name is Claire Beauchamp,” she says, to relax him.

“Jamie McTavish,” he says, face cut with lines of pain. There is a chirrup from underneath the stool - Luthiel must have found his daemon - it must be small, because she can’t see it anywhere - and introduced himself.

Ten intense seconds, and the shoulder is back in joint. The man - Jamie -  is white-faced, but he thanks her as she straps his arm to his side.

“Keep that on,” she warns, even as the leader comes to steer her away. Jamie moves to stand, and she sees part of the darkness around his feet unfold into the shape of a large coal-black cat, knee high at least, grey eyes fixed unblinkingly on her as she is led away.

 

*

 

5 May 1743  


Colum Mackenzie’s office is beautiful, light-filled, full of books and colourful birds. The man himself is imposing, standing still and straight even when his legs must be causing him great pain.

“So ye say ye were travelling to France?” The chair she is sitting in is uncushioned, and she squirms slightly.

“Yes, that’s what I said.” Across the room, Colum’s daemon - a doe, slender limbed and graceful, liquid eyes beautiful in the light - stretches and ambles over to the birdcage near the window. Luthiel, curled quietly on her lap as a proper lady’s daemon should be, hops off, and she watches out of the corner of her eye as he and the doe touch noses and talk quietly.

“Where, exactly?”

“Near Compiègne,” she says. Luthiel is batting at the doe’s neck, body laid flat along the floor, and Colum smiles.

“I mean ye no harm, Mistress Beauchamp,” he says. “But these are times for an abundance of caution.”

“I agree,” she says. Luthiel flows back to her lap, eyes gleaming. He looks content, and she relaxes infinitesimally. Colum’s hand rests on the doe’s neck as she comes to stand beside him and she nuzzles a cheek against his hand.

He doesn’t question her after that, only promises she can leave for Inverness with the trader on Tuesday, and they leave.

“I could have beaten her,” Luthiel says. She holds him close, as the implications of the date she’d seen on the letter in his office starts to sink in.

“You always say that,” she says.

“That’s because it’s usually true,” he says. “That letter. I didn’t want to believe it, but-”

They keep silent as a woman rushes past, arms full of what looks like chamber pots.

“Seventeen forty-three,” she says bleakly.

It’s enough to temporarily take away her relief at finding a possible way back to Inverness, and she ducks into an alcove and squeezes him tight. He digs his claws into the front of her dress and licks her cheek.

“Our life has never been boring,” he says. “Why start now?”

 

*

 

16 May 1743

The afternoon after the Gathering is the busiest day since she’s been at Castle Leoch. In addition to the poor man who was gored by the boar, there are another three serious injuries and a seemingly uncountable number of moderate wounds, ranging from nasty burns to crush injuries to gashes. Almost every patient is unaccountably cheerful, and she finds that her own mood grows worse with every smiling face.

“Dougal Mackenzie,” she says, “is a bastard of the highest order.” Luthiel’s tail lashes in agreement.

“You should have hit him harder last night.” Dougal doesn’t seem to be showing any ill-effects from the knock on the head she’d given him, or from the punishing game of shinty he’d played after the hunt.

“The man must be made of rubber,” she says gloomily. Although killing the Laird’s brother wouldn’t have helped her much anyway.

Between her brooding, needing to clean up the surgery before they leave, and trying to pack

(what _does_ one pack for a month-long excursion in the 18th century?)

It is long after dark before she remembers that she hasn’t eaten, and has almost certainly missed supper in the main hall. She sits on her bed, exhausted, but Luthiel nips at her ankles.

“Get moving,” he says, mongoose eyes gleaming as if he would love an excuse to nip at her again, and so she makes her way to the kitchens.

She manages to beg a bowl of stew, bread, and some cheese from Mrs. Fitz, and perches at the edge of one of the long tables.

She’s so intent on her food, it takes a while to notice that there is a shadow making her way fast toward her, and by the time she does, Jamie’s daemon is perched on the table, next to her plate.

She really is a beautiful cat: huge and wild-looking, black fur thickly furred and ruffed. The very tips of her fur glow orange and yellow when the light from the fireplace catches her just right, as if she is shedding embers.

“Hello,” she says.

“Oh,” Claire says, and blushes. Being addressed by another person’s daemon is always slightly awkward, and she looks around for Jamie. He can’t be far, of course, and she spots him in the doorway, face slightly drawn by the distance between him and his daemon. The cat pays him no mind, taking a few more steps along the table, and Jamie holds out for a few more moments, sweat visible on his forehead even in the poor light, before muttering a curse and stumbling forward.

“Would ye mind company?”

“No, not at all-”

“Astaria. Jamie never told ye my name.” The man in question seems to have recovered his composure, and he laughs.

“She didna ask, now did she?”

“I’m glad to know,” Claire says. Luthiel is underneath the table somewhere, refusing to show himself, and she feels strangely vulnerable facing them alone, twin cat-eyes gleaming at her from across the table. “Especially after what you did for me at the Gathering. Thank you, again.”

“We were happy to,” Astaria says blithely. “Weren’t we?”

“Of course,” Jamie says, and changes the subject neatly to the route they’re going to take, to what he knows about the villages they’ll pass through and the people they’ll be travelling with. It’s light and easy, and it _does_ relax her, loosening a knot of worry she didn’t even know she was carrying, as she allows herself to be distracted by the comforting timbre of his voice.  
  


*

 

27 May 1743  


She finds Jamie in a copse of trees. He sits on the ground, his shirt in his hands, still as a statue except for his fingers, running across the shabby material as if it will knit itself together. Next to him, Astaria sits as neatly as a Sphinx, claws sheathing and unsheathing rhythmically, ears pulled back just the slightest bit.

“He’s my uncle,” he says after a moment. The word _uncle_ sounds like jailor, the way he says it, and she steps forward, wanting to offer comfort.

“Dinna fash,” he says, after a moment. “I’ll do.” Astaria closes her eyes, and they understand the dismissal and leave.

 

*

  


7 June 1743

 

“We should do that again,” Luthiel says. “Soon.”

Her brand new husband has just gone downstairs, searching for food. She can hear the men downstairs cheering and shouting, and she is very glad that the room is far enough away that she can’t quite make out what they are saying.

“Do what again,” she says, and he gives her a flat stare. She looks away, not quite able to bear it.

“What a difference a day makes,” she murmurs. One day, and she has gained a whole new family, a greater knowledge of Scottish Highlands history, and a soreness and wetness between her legs that makes her stomach burn to think of.

She _does_ want him, especially now that she knows what he smells like up close, what he tastes like. She wonders how long it will take before it will be good for her, until they learn-

_No long-term thinking, Beauchamp._

“It’s not long-term,” Luthiel says. “I’m just being practical. We’re here, aren’t we?”

And all that makes a lot of sense, except he is languid on the floor by her feet. She stares for a moment.

“You like _him_ ,” she says, half accusing, and he twitches his tail in a mongoose equivalent of a shrug.

“Why not?” he says. “Isn’t it easier if I do?”  


*

 

(As it turns out, it gets good _fast_.)

 

*

 

The pearls around her neck are cool, and the Fraser blanket around her shoulders is scratchy, but all of that pales in comparison to the feel of Jamie, muscles like iron under her, a fine tremor in his muscles betraying how much he wants her. She rolls her hips, once, torturously slow, and swallows the gasp that comes out of his mouth.

The pleasure builds until she wants to crawl out of her skin with it, and soon she is shaking and trembling, pressing her mouth to his neck in an attempt to muffle herself. She breaks with a sharp cry that sends him over the cliff with her, Gaelic rumbling from his mouth through to her bones.

She can hear their harsh breathing, and Astaria’s low purr. She wonders, for the first time, what it would be like to touch that coal-black fur. Jamie would let her, she thinks. She wonders what his face would look like if she did.

“Are ye alright?” His large hand rubs at her back, warm and rough. “Is something bothering ye?” She raises her head to see him, messy haired, content.

“Nothing at all,” she says, and kisses him softly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! 
> 
> Chapter warnings: This chapter starts right after Claire and Jamie kill the redcoats in the glade, so there is very vague reference to sexual assault.

19 June 1743

Her vision is blurry at the edges, and her skin burns where the redcoat’s hands had gripped her. She doesn’t think she’ll bruise, he hadn’t really been trying to hurt her, he had been more focused on-

Luthiel digs his claws into her, hard, and she yelps from the pain. He doesn’t move, only presses his head to her chest, his heart beating fast as a hummingbird. Patches of his fur are wet with saliva from where one of the redcoats’ daemons had bitten him to keep him still. She runs a shaking hand down his back, checking for injury.

“Claire.” Jamie is standing above her, pale face stark against the lush green of the countryside. His hands and arms are streaked with blood. Next to him, Astaria is puffed up to twice her size, clawing at the ground as if it is attacking her.

Suddenly she can smell the blood, a hot metallic smell that she had become accustomed to long before this, except the blood is coming from a man she has killed because he had been trying to rape her.

“Claire.” Jamie is closer now, close enough that she can see that his eyes are wild, flicking between her exposed chest and the dead man next to her. She reaches a hand up to pull her dress together, and he swallows hard.

He reaches out and picks her up, taking them both away. He’s breathing hard, holding her almost her too tight, but she doesn’t pull away. He stops and puts her down when they are just out of sight of where the two bodies lie, facing away.

His hands are warm and trembling, and he presses their foreheads together.

“I’m alright,” she says.

  
*

  
The men are kind to her that day, and into the night. She goes to bed early as a consequence, curling up on hers and Jamie’s bedrolls, fidgeting to get comfortable on the hard ground.

Jamie doesn’t come to bed until she is almost asleep. Luthiel, curled up in the hollow of her throat, hisses as he approaches and for a moment she is frozen, staring at the hulking shape looming above her.

“It’s me,” he says quietly, crouching down, and now that she is past the momentary reaction he resolves into a familiar shape, red hair glowing darkly from the dim light of the fire, his now-familiar plaid

( _her_ plaid, now)

Draped across his broad chest.

He doesn’t say anything else, only moves so that his knees are braced on the bedroll. She sits up so that they are face to face, and Luthiel grumbles as she jostles him off. She can feel her heart beating in the tips of her fingers as she faces him.

It’s been easy to forget, these last few days, but she is in a camp, surrounded by strangers, and this man is her only ally. She feels very lonely, suddenly.

“How are ye,” he says.

“Fine,” she replies. Her heart is still beating, hard, and something of her fear must be showing on her face because he rocks back slightly.

“The camp is safe,” he says. “I went scouting, to make sure. There’s nothing but our tracks for miles.”

“Thank you,” she says. It seems inadequate, and she reaches out and takes his hand. Astaria appears from behind his leg, grey eyes gleaming. Her fur is still on end, as it has been all day.

Jamie’s hand is cold, which is startling. Every time she’s touched him, he’s burned hot.

She looks at him again, notes the paleness of his face, the almost-animal smell of sweat that rises off him, and thinks that maybe he is as scared as she is.

“I am…” he starts, and licks his lips. His thumb rubs over the back of her hand. “I am verra glad of that.”

She wants to be closer, suddenly, but she can’t quite bring herself to kiss him. Instead she lays back down and holds onto his hand, pulling him down with her. He follows easily, and they curl together.

There are things that should be said most likely, words that should be spoken, but she can’t find any of them. Instead she runs her free hand along his knee.

She touches gently, feeling goosebumps rise in her wake. She keeps her face tucked in his neck, but she can hear his harsh breathing, feel his pulse hammering.

She’s practiced at rucking up his kilt, now, and continues her touching, skimming over skin that is becoming more and more familiar to her. He moves, suddenly, pushing her onto her back, hips pressing into hers. He tries to pull her skirts up, but they are tangled around her legs. He grunts in frustration as he struggles with the cloth, and she ignores him, moving a hand up to run over the taut muscles of his stomach. They are trembling slightly with the effort of keeping him suspended above her, and she smiles into his neck.

She slides a hand down and grips him, and he groans deep in his throat.

“Wait,” he says, and he pulls back far enough to disentangle their legs.

They are partly hidden behind a small pile of boulders, a compromise between the safety of the group and a need for privacy. The men can’t see them, but will hear them clearly, and she bites her lip to keep quiet as he finally pulls her skirts up and settles in between her legs.

Her mind is blissfully calm for the first time since they left that glade, and she spreads her legs gladly, tilting her hips upwards. He gives her a startled look - something that would have amused her at any other time - and leans down to kiss her.

She wants to bite, wants to push him down into her and fuck her thoughts away, just for a little while, but he kisses her gently. He ignores her hands tugging him down to her

(he really is enormously strong, it’s not fair)

And uses one hand to stroke her lightly, not nearly enough.

“Jamie, please,” she whimpers quietly. “I want-”

“I can feel what ye want,” he says, and she gasps as his finger slips inside her. “I want ye to look at me, Claire. Be here with me.” She whimpers and strains forward, but he holds her hips down, and she reluctantly cracks her eyes open.

His eyes are wide and solemn, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he strokes her gently. She had been worried that she wouldn’t want him to touch her anymore, that she would feel trapped by him, but there isn’t space for anything other than the two of them.

She keeps her eyes open, the wild thing in her chest gentling enough that she can lean up and kiss him, shivering through the sensation. She slides down and finds him hard, ready.

“Now, Jamie, please,” she whispers, and he drives home.

She buries a gasp in the curve of his shoulder, his curls tickling her face. She braces a hand on his back, digging her fingers into the scarred skin, and twists the other in his shirt.

He moves slow and rough, pushing the air from her chest with each thrust, forehead pressed against her cheek, his hands digging into her waist, and she wraps her legs around his hips as best she can. It’s not violent, but desperate, as if he is trying to meld them together.

“Never again,” he says, his mouth brushing against her ear and making her shiver. “I promise. Never again.” The words are punctuated by sharp gasps in her ear.

“I’ll protect ye,” he says, and moves to press their foreheads together. “I swear.”

_It wasn’t your fault_ , she wants to say, but she doesn’t. Not because it’s not true, but because she can sense that he is receiving absolution from this, more than anything she could say to him.

She’s getting close; she can feel herself tighten around him, and he groans into her ear. It’s easy to move with him, to match his pace until her body begins to shake, to be aware of nothing but the feel of him all around and inside of her, and when he follows her she wraps her arms around his broad shoulders and stares up at the stars above, beautiful and uncountable and unknowable.

*

“I didna hurt ye, did I?”

“No,” she says softly. The night is quiet, apart from the distant chirping of some crickets and the occasional crackle of the fire, and his voice is barely above a whisper.

He’s pulled her close - he likes to do that, likes to tuck her face into the crook of his neck, loop an arm around her waist - and her forehead is pressed to his neck, his lips on the top of her head.

She hadn’t expected to like this part, too. She hadn’t expected that she would look forward to the quiet part after as much as the sex itself. And she doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to get used to falling asleep pressed together like this-

He pulls back.

“Yer heart’s beatin’ faster,” he says. “Are you sure ye’re alright?”

_Secrets but not lies_ , they had agreed. He is hovering slightly above her, waiting for her answer.

“When you were younger,” she says, “what did you think your life would look like?” He huffs a little at the misdirection, but settles back down, on his side this time, the hand on her back travelling up to rub circles on the nape of her neck. She arches slightly, and she sees his grin, startling white in the dark.

“It depends on how young ye mean. When I was a wee bairn, I wanted to be a knight. Then an adventurer, until my Da told me that I would have to spend months at sea. I’m seasick,” he adds. “I can barely watch a paper boat on a lake.” She laughs, and he does too, quietly.

“Then,” he continues, “I wanted to be a soldier forever, when I went to France. But that didna last long.”

“What about now?” she asks.

“Now,” he says, and is quiet, and she waits, focusing instead on Astaria and Luthiel, visible as indistinct shapes over the curve of Jamie’s shoulder. They are quiet, heads together, whispering quietly.

“Now,” he says. “I would like to have a home.”

  
*

They make love again, softer this time. After, he gathers her up and presses her to him again, his chest to her back.

“And ye,” he says into her hair. “What did ye want, when ye were younger?”

“I wanted to be like my uncle, when I was very little,” she says. “He was a historian.”

“I remember,” he says. “That’s unusual for a little lassie.”

“My uncle was unusual,” she says, smiling. He had never told her what her life was going to look like - no, it had never occurred to him to try to tell her who she should be at all. She is hit by a sudden wave of missing him, the smell of tobacco and old books that hovered about him always, the sound of his laugh, booming and friendly, his daemon Ryo, who had carried Luthiel on her back when they grew tired.

She swallows past the sudden sorrow that blocks her throat, and goes on.

“And when I was older… I wanted to do something of use. I wanted to help,” she says. “Being a… being a healer seemed the easiest way to do that.” He hums in response.

A slight movement catches her attention, and Luthiel hops into view, yellow eyes glowing in the dark. She can feel Jamie shift behind her, the arm around her waist tensing as her daemon walks closer. Luthiel stops when he’s half a foot away, nose twitching gently.

She tenses, despite herself. Women in this time are considered their husbands’ property, and Jamie would be well within his rights to touch Luthiel, if he wanted to, no matter how she felt about it.

_Move back_ , she thinks at him, and he ignores her. She’s tangled up enough that she can’t get up easily, and only manages to shift so that she can see part of Jamie’s face, alight with curiosity as Luthiel locks eyes with him.

She feels uniquely helpless, lying beneath a behemoth of a man while her daemon crouches within reach. This close to Jamie, she can feel a thrumming energy that runs through him at the sight of Luthiel so near, she can almost taste how much Jamie wants to reach out. He glances down at her, and whatever he sees in her face makes him swallow. His arms around her relax, and he leans back subtly.

“We should go to sleep, I think,” Luthiel says. _You worry too much_ , he thinks at her, and she scowls.

“A fine idea, “Jamie says.

“As long as you two can keep it down. Astaria and I can’t sleep with all that racket you’re making,” he says, and walks off with all the smugness of a being who has proved his point.

Jamie shakes his head, and looks down at her again. He hesitates, and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Sleep, Sassenach,” he says. “We have a long way to go, tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a tumblr! Find me at fallofrainblog if you are so inclined :)


	3. Chapter 3

_20 June 1743_

She sees the standing stones first. She’s still smarting from Jamie’s brusque order to stay in the clearing, the first time he has attempted to dominate her in their new marriage. She’s even more irritated that it _worked_ , and she paces, worrying at the edges of her lip. Luthiel is at the edge of the clearing, digging at something in the ground. His nerves grate on hers and she turns away to get some space.

That’s when she sees the stones, at once a natural part of the landscape and an aberration. They seem to almost shimmer, and she scrubs her hands across her face to be sure that they are real.

Luthiel feels her surprise and bounds over at once, cutting off an exclamation at the sight. They stare in silence for a minute, and he presses against her leg.

“This isn’t our place,” she says. The words are true - she’s Claire Beauchamp, former combat nurse, Frank Randall’s _wife_. This isn’t her time; she doesn’t belong here.

“If we’re going to go,” Luthiel says finally, “it should be now. Willie will be back any moment.”

They move together, Claire skidding down the incline in her skirts, Luthiel hopping into the trees to find the easiest way through. The stones are further than they look, most of the way through thick brush and uneven ground. She moves as slowly as her pounding heart will allow her, and they slowly make their way.

Halfway through, she stops, breath whistling from her throat, her hair sticking damply to her face. She moves to push her hair away and catches sight of Jamie’s ring, the metal glowing dully in the light. It’s enough to bring her to a stop.

 He’ll marry again, she tells herself, but she finds that she can’t quite move. Luthiel is waiting for her, yellow eyes sad. He takes a deliberate step away from her, and the heart-deep tug of their bond pulls her onward.

Luthiel stops too, one or two times, and she knows he is thinking of Astaria. She doesn’t pause for him either, and so they make their way slowly to the stones, determination a perfect counterbalance to grief, sending one onward when the other falters.

When they reach the base of the standing stone hill they barely pause for a second before running up. The way is steep, and she is almost dizzy from the exertion, her skirts in the way and her shawl slipping, and her shoes pinching, but she doesn’t stop. The only sound is the rushing of wind in her ears, and she is almost there. She can already feel the texture of the stone under her fingers, the smoothness of the lichen and the chill of it, she can almost smell _home_ , and -

Luthiel screams behind her, the thin sound hitting almost as hard as the pain blooming in her neck as she whips around. He’s flat on the ground, a fox daemon’s teeth digging into the side of his throat, and behind them redcoats thunder up the hill, bayonets in hand.

 

*

They huddle together in the back of the wagon, silent, hearts beating in unison.

‘We need a plan,” she says, out of hope more than practicality. She needs something to hold on to, something to think about other than the fact that she has just done something irredeemably, disastrously stupid.

“They’re going to take us to him,” Luthiel says. The fur on his back has stood up thickly, but he trembles against her, and she knows he is thinking of that terrible afternoon in Jack Randall’s office, the softness of his voice when he had talked about brutalising Jamie, the gentle drip of his daemon’s saliva on the wood floor as he had waxed poetic at the description of Jamie’s flayed back.

He had enjoyed hurting her, too. _Women are so soft_ , he had said to his underling, and she wants to be sick.

Panic rises in her like a wave, battering at the threads of her self control, eroding the last of her calm. She wonders whether he will beat her to death, or allow his men to do it. She wonders if he will use tools.

“The Duke of Sandringham,” Luthiel says, face pressed to her chest, fur tickling her nose. He doesn’t say anything more, only waits, and slowly, she fights back the fog of fear to realise what he is talking about.

“I barely remember anything Frank said,” she whispers, but it is a sliver of a plan, and that is enough.

 

*

 

When she thinks back on at the short, terrible time during and after Jack Randall, she remembers pain. She remembers her arm twisted behind her back, shocking nakedness, fear that clawed its way up her throat.

She remembers that Jamie came to save her.

*

 

_23 June 1743_

The constant days on horseback on the way back to Castle Leoch lull her into a kind of trance, and she spends long stretches of time with her mind pleasantly blank. It’s a welcome reprieve from the activity of the past two days: the attempted escape to the stones, Jack Randall, again, and Jamie’s attempt at discipline that has made horse riding an exercise in mental fortitude. Luckily her horse is old and placid, and is happy to plod along at a pace that her rear end can just about manage.

Just then, Jamie trots by her on his gelding, not making eye contact. Luthiel hisses from his perch on her lap as his horse passes by, and she jumps in the saddle. The slight movement causes a bolt of pain to go through her, and she only half-heartedly reaches forward to grab him as he lunges for Astaria, who is sat behind the saddle, effortlessly keeping her balance.

The daemon only swishes her tail disdainfully, grey eyes fixed on them as they move out of reach. Jamie keeps his eyes forward refusing to make eye contact, but she can see that the back of his neck is bright red. Coward.

“Coward’s too kind,” Luthiel mutters. “Unmitigated bastard fits much better, I think.”

“Yes,” she says with feeling. “Certainly. Perhaps a filthy cullion?”

 Luthiel’s eyes light up. “A fucking knave,” he says.

She has always found that foul language has a remarkably restorative property on her mood, and by the time they stop for lunch she is feeling much happier. Once off the horse, Luthiel hops away to talk to Angus’ goat daemon, and she finds Ned. He is a very pleasant conversationalist, especially after lunch.

 

*

 

_28 June 1743_

The room that Mrs Fitz has given them is large, clean, and has a beautiful view of the forest. The morning after they return to Castle Leoch, she squeezes onto the shallow windowsill so she can watch the sun rise. Jamie comes up behind her and presses a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. It is different from the frenzy that took them the night before, but it is enough to send a shiver down her. He does it again, and she closes her eyes.

 The Castle isn’t home - it was a prison too recently for her to think of in those terms, but she can’t deny that there is a peace that comes from moments like these that she has felt only rarely in her life: once or twice, with Lamb, at the nurses’ college, and her courtship with  Frank. And Jamie, now. Moments with him seem to lengthen out of all proportion to time passing, like they are caught in one of the snowglobes she used to have as a little girl.

He puts his arms around her and rests his chin on the top of her head.

“I can see ye thinking hard,” he says. “Do ye want to tell me?”

She runs a finger down his forearm, the back of his hand, his index finger. His hands are broad and rough, tanned and lightly scarred, his fingers blunt and calloused. But he touches her gently, his weight against her bracing and not suffocating, the quiet peaceful and not stilted. _This_ feels like home, a little voice whispers in her head. Not Leoch, not Scotland, not this _time_ , but this moment, with him. She pushes it away firmly. 

“I don’t think I know how to be married,” she says, and waits, but he is silent. “I don’t…” Frank was a friend of Lamb’s. She had known him for over a year before he had proposed. They had built their relationship slowly, together. This isn’t like that. She doesn’t want to think about what it’s like, not when she supposed to be trying to leave.

“I don’t think I’ll make a very good wife,” she finishes. And that’s true, at least. She was eccentric at best in her proper time. By 18th century standards she’ll be nothing short of a scandal.

“I dinna ken if I’ll be a verra good husband,” he says, after a moment. “But I’ll try. To care for ye, I mean. To make ye happy.” His arms tighten around her, a thumb stroking her waist.

“I can try, too,” she replies, her voice wavering despite herself. “You may regret marrying me,” she adds, and can’t help the slight warning that slips into her tone. She twists up to see his face. From this angle he looks older, more careworn. He looks down and smiles.

“I doubt that, Sassenach,” he says, and kisses her forehead. She moves out of his grasp enough that she can turn and kiss him properly. Everything subsides into peace when they are like this, her worries muted to the background. Everything fades except for her awareness of him, the places he’s touching her and the places he isn’t, the things she wants to do to him. The things she wants to tell him.

He pulls back slowly, pressing one last chaste kiss against her lips.

“I must leave,” he says slowly. “Or Old Alec may come up here to drag me down.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” she says, and allows herself one more soft kiss. “I’ll see you later, then,” she says, and he leaves.

“You’re a fool,” Luthiel says from his spot on her pillow.

 

*

 

_20 October 1743_

“Nineteen sixty eight,” Geillis whispers, green eyes wide, and Claire’s world tilts on its axis.

Then there is a shot, and the courtroom erupts in chaos. The spectators swarm to the front, the judges call for order, and a cry of condemnation rises up from the back. She shouts back. She can’t help it, even though she knows she’s likely just making everything worse.

That suspicion is borne out when they start to whip her, and she can’t help but scream. The whip sends narrow lines of pain along her back, sinking into her skin wherever it hits the same spot twice.

“Let her go!” Jamie shoves his way to the front, sheened in sweat, eyes wild.

He argues for her, hard. He plants himself beside her and gathers her up, thundering all the while. They are going to kill her anyway. She can feel it in the way the judges are looking at her, dark and disgusted.

And then Geillis saves her. She rips her dress off her body, and her fox daemon opens his mouth and screams, and together they make such a spectacle that Jamie has to drag her away.

“ _Go_ ,” Geillis had mouthed at her, desperate. So she did.

 

*

 

The forest is green and calm and beautiful. Jamie is quiet beside her, and she uses that tranquility to bring herself together.

He has to know. This secret is going to kill her.

“I have to tell you something,” she says, and he listens, all the way through.

  
*

 

“I’m not sure they believe us,” Luthiel says, when Jamie and Astaria have gone to fetch water.

“I can’t blame them,” she says. “ _I_ barely believe us.” Jamie hadn’t said anything, only hugged her until she had calmed, then he had wrapped his plaid around her and they had set off.

“He didn’t take us back to be burned, at least,” Luthiel says, pawing at the hem of her dress.

Jamie has been uncharacteristically silent, but he’s promised to take her home. She’s looking forward to seeing Lallybroch, after everything he’s told her. It sounds like the home she’s always wanted.

 

*

 

Jamie leads her to the top of Craigh na Dun, and she pulls her hand out of his. 

“This isn’t Lallybroch,” she says stupidly, and he stares.

“Ye said this is where ye… came through,” he says, after a moment. “I promised I would take ye home,” he says.

She hadn’t noticed the first time, but the stones… hum, is the only way to describe it, although that isn’t quite right. It’s more the stones are emitting _something_ that reaches all the way to her bones, as if some force is trying to shake her to atoms.

It is the most otherworldly thing she has ever felt, but it pales in comparison to Jamie saying goodbye to her.

 _Wait_ , she wants to say, as he walks away, leaving her at the top of the hill. _Don’t leave me_. But _she’ll_ be leaving _him_.

When she goes.

 _If_ she goes.

It’s only when the sun begins to disappear over the ridge that she sits up. She had made the decision quickly, she thinks, now that it’s done. It was the ramifications of that decision that had trapped her on the hill for hours.

She turns her head, and Luthiel looks at her.

“Yes?” she says, and at his nod they are running down the hill, heedless of the danger.

 

*

 

When she sees him, they both cry. She sits on his lap and wraps around him, and his tears land on her skin. His hands tremble where they touch her, reverent in a way they hadn’t been even on their wedding night.

“Ye came back,” is all he says, once, and then she fits her mouth over his, and bears them to the ground.

They make love slowly, fingers tripping over folds of clothing, legs bumping together. He pulls back to look at her; she growls and pulls him back, sinking her hands into his hair.

 _Mine_ , she thinks. _Mine, mine, mine._ She is sure that she doesn’t say it out loud, but he looks at her like he hears her anyway.

 

*

 

She can’t sleep after. Every nerve is awake and firing - with joy, with trepidation, with happiness. She knows that Jamie is awake as well, but she doesn’t move.

An arm’s length away, their daemons lay curled together, eyes shut. Luthiel is woken by her sudden curiosity, and disentangles himself and walks over. Jamie is laying behind her and sits up when she does, blinking tiredly as she gathers Luthiel up.

 _If you’re sure_ , she thinks, and he nods. She turns so that she is facing Jamie. He blinks at her, looking confused and heartbreakingly sweet, and she sees the exact moment when he understands what she is offering. She loosens her grip as Jamie reaches forward, and then her daemon is in another person’s hands, and her heart feels as if it will leap out of her chest.

She can’t help it; she sneaks a look around to be sure that they are alone. She hadn’t bothered when they were making love, but this feels as if Jamie has reached a hand under her skin, and she can’t imagine anyone bearing witness to this moment. She feels as if he could find the centre of her and unravel her now, if he wanted.

She is distracted by a movement near her knee.

“Oh, me too,” Astaria says, and steps into Claire’s lap, as if this is something that they do daily. The cat daemon is heavier than she looks, the orange in her fur more luminous up close.

“Sassenach,” Jamie says. He has a peculiar look of half-frozen joy on his face, Luthiel now trying to negotiate his way onto his shoulder, and he inclines his head. And so she rests her hand in that coal-black fur, and listens to Jamie’s catch of breath, and knows that she is home at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Finally. I can't believe it's taken me so long to update, but I'm planning to finish up the next chapter much quicker. Hope you enjoy!

_ 28 October 1743 _

 

“Tell me again,” she says, winding her hand around Donas’ reins for balance. He snorts at the movement but stays still as Jamie lashes their meagre belongings securely to the side of the saddle.

“Ye ken Colum and Dougal,” Jamie says. “Then Janet, Flora, and - ”

“Jocasta,” she interjects. 

“Right,” Jamie says, grinning. “My sister may be a wee fiend at times, but even she willna expect ye to ken every detail of our extended family.”

“She certainly won’t be expecting any of  _ this, _ ” Claire says, gesturing to herself. Calling her bedraggled would be putting it kindly, she thinks, and resists the urge to put a hand through her hair. A week of travel has had a frightful effect on her appearance and general hygiene, and she suspects that she more closely resembles a bog witch than the dignified wife of a Laird. “English, no family to speak of, not so much as a passing familiarity with a hairbrush-”

“Janet willna care. Or she will, but I suspect she would mind more did I bring home a Scottish mouse. She likes strong wills, and ye have that in abundance. Too much, if ye ask me,” he adds, and neatly dodges the kick she aims at his side. 

“Stop jostling us, if you please,” a peeved voice sounds from her midriff, and she peers at her lap where Luthiel and Astaria are curled together on her lap. A pair of cool grey eyes stares back at her. 

“You’re welcome to sit in one of the bags, if you want,” she says, and is rewarded what she can only describe as the cat version of rolling eyes, but they’re all in high spirits, the newness of their togetherness like a sheen over the otherwise ordinary day. 

The giddiness persists even when they start moving, Jamie leading Donas on foot, and she finds herself transfixed by the muscles of his neck when it joins to his shoulders, the exact shading of blue of his irises. 

Astaria begins to purr, the rumble startling her out of her reverie, and Jamie clears his throat. 

“I can hear yer licentious thoughts from here, Sassenach,” Jamie say, without turning his head. “If ye keep on like that we willna make it back to Lallybroch before Hogmanay.”

“So be it,” she says, colouring her tone with enough suggestion that he whips around to face her, red already showing on the planes of his cheekbones. 

“Now that ye mention it, it looks like it may rain,” he says, glancing up at the sky, which is unbroken blue, as far as the eye can see. “Best to stop for the night.”

She’s dismounting the horse, into his arms before his sentence is quite done, and she ignores the complaining of the daemons as they scamper off her lap before they’re squashed. 

He tastes even better than she remembers, and she winds her arm around his neck and sinks a hand into his hair as he tries desperately to balance her weight and momentum. In the end, physics defeats him and they collapse into a patch of heather, laughing helplessly.

He moves to get up, and she pushes him back, still giggling in fits and spurts as his large hands tug at her corset strings. 

“Eager, are we?” His deft fingers unwind them easily, and she shivers as the open air touches the exposed skin of her chest.

“I’m no’ the one who launched herself off a horse at top speed,” he says, abandoning opening her corset any further so he can ruck her skirts up instead. A warm hand lands on the inside of her thigh, and she closes her eyes, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder and breathing him in. 

She takes a quick look around to make sure they are alone. There isn’t any other living thing as far as she can see, only Donas, absorbed in a patch of grass and studiously ignoring the behaviour of his humans.

She squeals as a warm mouth engulfs her nipple, rocking forward as pleasure spreads through her. She feels weightless and untethered, as if she would float off into the ether if he wasn’t anchoring her down.

Her hands scrabble at his shirt and kilt, pulling them out of the way as best she can, and she sighs in relief at the skin-on-skin contact.

She looks down to see Jamie gazing at her, bemused, hair mussed.

“What?” she says.

“I do like yer wee noises, Sassenach,” he says softly.

“Hmmph,” she says, even as she feels her face heat. “Well, you won’t hear any more of them unless you get on with it,” she says, and his mouth spreads in a rakish grin.

“Of course, Mrs. Fraser,” he says.

 

*

 

_ 1 November 1743 _

Lallybroch is nothing like Castle Leoch, she can see that, even from a distance. It’s smaller and newer looking, and it’s missing the hustle and bustle of dozens of people going about their business in the courtyard and surrounding fields. It’s more of a stately home than a true castle, and she finds herself feeling relief. Jamie wraps his hand in hers.

“Dinna fash,” he says, eyes crinkling as he smiles down at her. They’ve been walking the last few miles to give the horse a rest, and she’s glad that she has him near, instead. “We’re home.”

 

*

 

All in all, their homecoming leaves quite a lot to be desired. She stands under the main arch, back straight, fighting the urge to run her hands through her hair, while Jamie stares incredulously at his sister.

“My name is Claire,” she says to the little boy, hoping to defuse some of the tension that has Jamie on the edge of exploding, if the strain on his face is anything to go by, and the little boy smiles hesitantly back. His daemon, mouse-formed, peers out of his pocket and turns into an iridescent butterfly, fluttering gently around his face.

“My name’s Jamie,” he volunteers, and her Jamie lets out a groan of pain.

“Ye shame me,” he says to his sister, and Astaria hisses, fur standing on end, looking more like a wildcat than Claire has ever seen her.

Jenny’s face changes at once from overjoyed to darkly furious, and her wolf daemon growls lowly at her side. Claire can’t help but flinch - it’s difficult to keep stoic when staring at knife-sharp teeth that could sink through her flesh as easy as anything, even though she knows that Jenny’s daemon will never touch her. 

Little Jamie trots back to his mother, his daemon changing from butterfly to pup, stumbling over its own feet as it goes, and Jenny’s wolf gathers the wolfling close, growling all the while.

A tall, brown-haired man limps into view and leans against the wall by Claire as Jenny erupts into furious Gaelic, striding forward to poke her brother in the chest. Jamie just bellows back, and her almost nonexistent Gaelic doesn’t have a hope of following along. 

“Dinna worry about them,” he says. “They’ve been like this ever since they could talk.” His raven daemon, perched on a bale of hay beside him, flutters her wings in agreement. “Ian Murray,” he adds.

“Claire. Fraser,” she says, and his feathery eyebrows raise.

“Welcome to the family,” he says, and she takes a closer look at him, at the stature and colouring, then at the little boy watching the row between brother and sister with intense interest.

“Aye,” he says, as realisation blooms, her face betraying her thoughts as always. There is a lull in the noise as both brother and sister take a breath, and he interjects, smooth as anything:

“I’ll thank ye to stop insulting my wife and son, Jamie.”

She gets the satisfaction of seeing Jamie utterly nonplussed - it doesn’t happen often, and it’s a singularly enjoyable feeling - before understanding floods his features.

“I think we’re going to like it here,” Luthiel says, and she can’t help but nod in agreement.

 

*

 

_ 18 November 1743 _

For the rest of her life, she will count the times she spent at Lallybroch as one of her happiest. The land is beautiful and seems to be as eager to be lived on as they are to live on it. The people are wary of her, but don’t reject her outright, and after the witch trials that’s more than enough for her. She suspects a few more months of her medical knowledge will win most of them over, anyway.

Ian is lovely; quiet and warm and witty in a quiet way. Jenny’s harder to get to know, but Claire can feel the potential for a great friendship, and isn’t in any hurry. They have their whole lives, after all. And Jamie just  _ fits _ here, as if he sprang up, fully formed, from the ground.

Still, there are the odd bouts of pain.

She’s in the Laird’s room, washing up from delivering Jenny’s daughter, the sea-smell of birth still clinging to her hands, when Jamie walks in. He has an uncanny sense for when she is upset, and steps silently into the room.

She keeps her back turned. No tears are falling, but she knows that one look at her face is as good as a shouted declaration, and she wants to be able to tell him for herself.

_ Buck up, Beauchamp _ , she thinks to herself, and turns around. Luthiel trembles where he is draped across her neck like a scarf.

She holds her arms at her sides - she can still feel the weight of brand-new Margaret in her grasp, the newborn softness and heartbreaking fragility of the little body, the baby’s daemon an indistinct form, tucked underneath her chin.

“I don’t-” she starts, and stops. “I can’t have children,” she says softly, not allowing herself to look away from his face. 

His eyes widen just the smallest bit, and his face settles into the impassive mask he uses to hide strong feeling. 

“How can ye know?” he asks.

“I didn’t, with Frank. And we tried.” She hasn’t told him much about Frank. They might have got to talking about him more, in time, but she hasn’t particularly wanted to and Jamie hadn’t pushed. 

“I see,” he says, still neutral, and he crosses the space between them in three quick strides, reaching down to take her hands in his. His hands engulf hers, as always, and she swallows. 

“I should have told you before,” she says.

“I canna say it would have stopped me,” he says, and she peeks upwards. This close, she can see the lines of strain around his eyes, but his grip on her is firm and soft and warm. “It wouldna,” he adds, and she allows him to fold her into his arms. He smells like sweat and farmwork and musk, and she buries her nose in the front of his shirt.

“I won’t give you a son like Jamie, or a daughter like Maggie,” she says, not sure why she is belabouring the point, except it feels like poking at a bruise, maddening but compulsive. He is more upset than he is letting on, judging by his heartbeat under her ear, but he only strokes her hair.

“I wouldna want ye to suffer to give me anything, not for a second. I wouldna want ye to be in such pain.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” she says, and he holds her tighter.

He presses a gentle kiss to her neck, and he lets her go. Luthiel hops from her shoulder to his as they separate, slipping into the inside pocket of his shirt, and she braces a hand on the table. 

She can’t leave, now, and so she presses Jamie down into the nearest chair and his arms come around her so that she is pulled into his lap, and between them they say a great many things that she will keep in her heart forever.

 

_ 22 November 1743 _

On the morning that Jamie is captured by the Watch, she wakes to find him hovering over her, seemingly enthralled by the curl of her hair at her temple. When he sees she is awake, he smooths the curls back, gently, as if a press too hard will break her. 

“Good morning,” she mumbles. Jamie smiles the self-satisfied smile of a morning person feeling pity for a sleep-drunk loved one, and cups a hand behind her head.

“Good morning to ye,” he says. “I’m glad ye decided to wake.”

“The sun’s barely up,” she protests, and he chuckles.

“It’s noon by farm standards,” he says. “We’re goin’ to check the fallow fields to the North, so we won’t be back until just before supper.” He kisses her quickly before getting out of bed, and she shivers at the loss of his warmth before reluctantly following suit. 

Before long, they are both dressed and ready. Jamie moves to leave first, while she laces up her boots.

“See ye at dinner, then,” he says, and Astaria butts her head against her leg in goodbye.

“Wait, she says, and pulls Astaria into her arms, hearing and savouring his intake of breath as he stops in his tracks and stares.

“I love you,” she says to them, not knowing why it is so important that they  _ know _ it, except some small voice within her is insisting. With his daemon in her arms he will follow her anywhere, she thinks, and carefully puts Astaria down.

“I love ye as well,” he says gently, and then they are gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fastest I've ever updated this fic, lol. **Quick warning, this chapter covers the last three episodes of season one and therefore has some probably-triggering stuff in it. Everything is still all from Claire's POV and it's not graphic but it contains discussions/threat of rape, physical violence, and maiming.**
> 
> On a lighter note, His Dark Materials, the series is starting on Monday on HBO, so check it out if you're interested in the daemon aspect of this fic. Hope you enjoy!

_21 November 1743_

Jenny is as good a tracker as she said. They go slowly on their horses, her head bent to the ground as Gregor lopes ahead, his nose brushing the short grass. Every now and then he will huff, his ears pricked in some random direction, and they’ll change course. 

It’s painstakingly slow, and there is an almost overwhelming urge to wheel her horse and gallop ahead. The only thing that stops her is the obvious strain on Jenny’s face, the tight grip of her hands on the reins that tells her that she wants to find Jamie almost as much as Claire does.

She focuses instead on the facts. Jamie is strong and clever, and he knows this land like the back of his hand. He’ll do his best to either stay alive or escape, and all they have to do is find him. 

*

They find the encampment of soldiers just as the sun is beginning to set and they huddle close, flat against the ground, their breath frosting the air. They don’t speak, don’t even glance at each other, too occupied trying to spot that unlikely combination of red hair and great height. 

She searches once, twice, a desperate third time, the damp of the ground soaking into the front of her dress. She can see the other prisoners in the wagon, but there is no sign of Jamie. 

She can’t say how long they look for, but her fingers and toes are numb by the time Jenny shifts.

“He’s no’ there,” she says, breath coming out in small puffs, breath laboured. She should be resting so soon after giving birth, Claire knows, but she can hardly bring herself to feel guilty.

Luthiel, who has not said a word since they left Lallybroch, stirs from beside her.

“I’ll check,” he says, and neatly dodges the grab Claire makes at him. “I’m small,” he says. “And my senses are as good as his,” he adds, twitching his nose at Gregor, who only meets his eyes with an unblinking yellow gaze. “I’ll be careful,” he murmurs, and slips through the bushes.

They’re as close as they dare go to the soldiers, but there is a good ten feet between them and the beginning of their encampment. She very quickly feels the pull of their bond as he separates from her, a barb in her heart that makes her gasp as he pulls it to the very limit. 

“Easy, now,” Jenny murmurs, as she groans, low voiced and painful. Pain rises from the  centre of her, blooming to the very tips of her fingers as Luthiel moves even further away. She closes her eyes as Jenny threads their hands together.

The barb in her chest tears through her just that little bit more as Luthiel forces himself another foot away, and it abruptly disappears as he comes back, as quickly as he safely can. 

They back away quietly, Gregor heading up the rear, and she collapses on an upturned log as soon as they are safely away, breathing hard and dashing the tears from her eyes. Luthiel is in her lap, equally unhappy.

“Are ye alright?” Jenny is watching them with some trepidation, and not a little bit of sympathy.

“Fine,” she says hoarsely.

“They were there,” Luthiel says. “I could smell them. But it was faint. I don’t think they’re there anymore.”

“Where then?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“I dinna ken,” Jenny interjects, “but I have an idea for how we can find out.”

*

The soldier that she and Jenny capture is an unpleasant man, alternating between calling them bitches and whores and begging them for mercy, and she finds she doesn’t feel much when Jenny presses the red-hot brand to his bare feet.

She thinks maybe she should. She believes strongly that she has a responsibility to do no harm, but she doesn’t intervene, even when the air fills with the smell of burning flesh and hair and his screams grow higher in pitch.

“Tell us what ye ken,” Jenny says, and, he does, blubbering, as if that will save him.

*

She’s not surprised when Jenny says she needs to go back to Lallybroch. Claire has seen how quickly Jenny’s energy has flagged, the care she uses to manoeuvre herself into the saddle. She’ll have Murtagh, at least. She still doesn’t know him well, but she knows he’s an honourable man who loves Jamie. 

Still, she feels a prick in her chest as Jenny readies to leave. She’s the last tie to Lallybroch, to the home she thought she and Jamie were building for themselves. So she tells Jenny the little she remembers from Frank’s impromptu history lessons.

“Plant potatoes,’ she says, and Jenny’s fine eyebrows rise. She knows she has to walk a fine line between telling her too much, and telling her so little that her advice will be useless, but she can’t abide the thought of Lallybroch and their residents in starvation and ruin. 

Thanks to Jamie and his forethought, Jenny listens. No matter what happens to her from this point forward, she’s done what she can to protect them. 

Just before she leaves, Jenny pulls her into a hug. She stiffens in surprise - this is the first time Jenny has ever embraced her - but she holds her close, feeling a strong, quick pulse of love for this bold, irascible woman who is now her family. Jenny presses a kiss to her cheek, soft and fleeting.

“Bring my brother back, aye?” she says.

“I’ll do anything,” she says, and she means it with every cell in her body.

*

_10 December 1743_

She has the feeling that Murtagh would rather she turned back - he doesn’t seem to be entirely comfortable in her presence, but he’s perfectly courteous, if taciturn. They ride from village to village in silence, his Irish wolfhound daemon running along beside him.

The weeks pass in a blur of dancing and singing and taverns. Breeches are monstrously uncomfortable after months of dresses, and her skin chaps and chafes from the open travelling in the harsh elements. 

Murtagh only grows more grim as they pass village after village with no word of Jamie. Someone as striking as he is would have been spotted by _someone_ by now, she knows, and she begins to have dreams of Jamie killed or dead by simple accident, his body laying in a lonely grove, pale skin turning grey with death, moss creeping over closed eyes. 

She wakes more than once to find Murtagh awake, staring into the fire as if it will tell him where to go next. He never turns, even though he almost certainly knows she’s woken.

 _We will find you_ , she promises Jamie, whose features are already beginning to blur in her mind’s eye. _Wait for me. I’m coming_.

*

_16 December 1743_

Walla is eyeing Luthiel with the keen eye of a predator, and Claire can see her take incremental hops closer to him as Dougal advances on her. He takes her hands in his, speaks sweetly of how he’ll protect her, how Jamie would want her to be safe. 

“How long do ye think Jack Randall will leave ye in peace once he’s done with Jamie?” he asks, tone honeyed and reasonable. She’s still half-sick with disappointment that Dougal was the man waiting in the cave, and it is easy to spit venom at him, easy for Luthiel to hiss and swipe at the feet of his hawk daemon when she tries to get closer to him.

She doesn’t even feel guilty about agreeing to marry him if he helps her get Jamie free. She doesn’t intend on being anywhere near him if they fail.

*

Wentworth prison is even bigger than it looks from the outside, and labyrinthine, presumably to make it more difficult for prisoners to escape. She knows she doesn’t have much time before the governor returns to his office and finds an unconscious guard inside, and walks faster.

“We’ve already gone down there,” Luthiel says, when she goes to turn left, and so they follow a dark hallway to another group of cells.

This one is filled with prisoners, and her heart speeds up as she gets as close as she dares without being in grabbing range of the men inside.

“Jamie,” she says, as loud as she dares, and there is a chuckle.

“I’ll be yer Jamie,” someone says, and she ignores him, peering into the dim space for any sign of him. All she can see are strangers caked with dirt and other filth, their daemons listless beside them, and she hurries on.

When a prisoner finally points in the right direction, it takes everything in her not to run down the hallway in search of him. Instead she creeps around corners, keeps to the shadows, walks as lightly as possible.

Screams sound down the hall from a cell maybe twenty feet in front of her, high and echoing, soaked in pain, and she _knows_. She closes her eyes and waits until she hears the door to that cell open and close, and unlocks the door with shaking fingers.

At first glance, she thinks he is dead. He is deathly still, and his skin looks white in the flickering light. It’s only when she lays her hands on him, feels that infernal warmth of his under her skin, that some of the terror she has been carrying with her begins to abate.

“Claire.” His fingers fumble up to touch her hair, and she flinches when she sees his mangled horror of a hand.

“It is really ye?” he mumbles. “Ye must leave.”

His skin is freshly scrubbed, his hair damp. He is clutching Astaria to him with his wrecked hand, and she’s clean too. Luthiel nudges at her, but she only curls away from him.

It’s only just occurred to her to wonder what kind of prison allows their captive access to regular bathing when a rough, dry chuckle cuts the air. She turns slowly, knowing what she will see even as she desperately hopes she is wrong.

Jack Randall’s baboon daemon is still chuckling, mouth hanging open, razor sharp teeth on full display. In contrast, her human is still and intent, face dead and still apart from the barest glimmer in his eyes.

“You do have a gift for showing up in the most unexpected places," he says, almost in wonder.

*

Their fight is short and brutal. She’s no match for Randall and that brute he has brought down with him, and Jamie is half delirious with pain. He collapses with the effort of killing the brute, and Randall scoops her up and off the floor as though she weighs less than a child. His face is impassive as he pins her against the wall. The webbing of his fingers is pressing so hard against her windpipe that she is sure he will crush it.

“What will you do, if I let her go,” Randall asks, casual, as if he is asking them to tea.

Jamie looks at her, and at Luthiel, held tightly between the baboon daemon’s deft hands. The baboon makes that choking, barking cough again, and twists her hands as if to tear him apart.

Claire screams; she can’t help it. Dread fills her to the brim, and she fights Randall as hard as she can. He barely notices. Jamie shoots her a helpless, hopeless look, and fixes his eyes on Randall.

“Let them go,” he says, “and we willna fight ye.”

“Jamie, _no_ ,” she says, but she is already forgotten. 

“Your word?” Randall says, casual still, but there is an animal intensity in the way he cocks his head.

“Aye,” Jamie says. “If ye let her go.”

‘A token of your sincerity, first,” Randall says.

Somehow, she knows what he’s going to do before he straightens with the nail in his hand, and her fingers curl in Jamie’s shirt as if to tug him away. 

Luthiel is still held in the baboon daemon’s hands, ensuring compliance, and so neither of them move as the nail pins Jamie’s beautiful, broken hand to the rough wood. She braces behind him so he doesn’t faint and lose his balance from the shock of it, and he whimpers once, so quietly that she is sure that not even Randall heard.

“The three of us will remember this night for the rest of our lives,” Randall says. He reaches forward to where Astaria is limp on Jamie’s lap, and sinks one hand into her luxuriant fur.

Jamie rocks back sharply, heedless of the nail pinning his hand to the table, and gasps as if someone has kicked him in the gut. Luthiel has stopped his subtle attempts to wriggle out of the baboon’s grasp and stills, horror keeping him steady.

Jamie is heaving, sweat breaking out across his hairline as Randall runs a delicate finger down Astaria’s spine. Every hair on her body is on end, her wickedly sharp nails and teeth on full display, but she doesn’t move a muscle.

 _Because they promised_ , she thinks, and she hates Jonathan Wolverton Randall with every fibre of her being.

“I think it’s time for you to leave us, Mrs. Fraser,” Randall says. And so she leaves, empty but for the hate she cradles as close as a newborn child.

*

Murtagh has a plan. It’s the best plan they have, and it might even work. Still, they can’t do anything until tomorrow, and she’s heartsick at the thought of Jamie alone with that beast of a man. 

“Did we make things worse for them?” Luthiel speaks quietly, even though she has been given a small front room to sleep alone. 

“Maybe,” she admits, and her throat closes up. If their plan doesn’t work, then all her foray into the prison accomplished was providing Randall with extra ammunition to break Jamie. The thought is so distressing that she sits up out of her little pallet, shoving the blankets away as if they are smothering her.

“If we don’t…” she starts.

“We have to,” he says grimly.

*

_19 December 1743_

She’s supposed to be waiting for Rupert’s wagon in the bushes, out of sight, but she only lasts about half an hour before she crawls out to the edge of the road.

The sun has only just risen, and she shivers at the early morning chill. The trees throw irregular shadows as the leaves rustle with the wind, and she jumps every time, her overanxious mind creating hordes of redcoats emerging from the foliage, swords drawn.

When the wagon does appear, at least an hour after Murtagh had said judging from the angle of the sun, she climbs into the back, ignoring Murtagh’s outstretched hand and scrambling toward the indistinct shape underneath a thick blanket.

His eyes are closed, but she can see his eyelids flickering. She quashes the impulse to gather him in her arms and instead presses two fingers to his carotid. His pulse is fast and light, but steady. His breaths are laboured, but he’s not gasping or wheezing, but his skin is warmer than usual, and so she pulls the blanket up to cover his shoulders and touches the side of his face.

“Jamie,” she says. “It’s all right. You’re safe.” His eyes fly open, and he moves so fast she barely has time to blink before his good hand is wrapped around her throat, squeezing as if he truly means to remove her from the earth. There is a flash of pain at her arm as a black blur leaps at her. 

She can faintly hear the men shouting as they pull him off her, but all she can really focus on is the wild, blank look in his eyes as his hand tightens inexorably around her throat.

“That’s _Claire_! What’s the matter with ye?” Rupert looks helplessly at her as Jamie finally allows himself to be pulled away, and she can only shake her head and try to catch her breath. 

Jamie slumps down into a light faint, most likely from a combination of pain and fever, and her arm throbs. She grimaces at the four neat claw marks that run from the middle of her arm down to her wrist. The wound is bleeding, but not gushing, and she ignores it for the time being.

Astaria is still awake, but her grey eyes start to droop as her human’s somnolence pulls her under.

“Leave us be,” she says, and curls on top of Jamie’s hip, claws extended even as she allows her eyes to close. 

*

She’s not a doctor. She’s been acting as a healer for months now, but she has never felt the gap in her knowledge so acutely as when Jamie finally lets her look at his hand. She touches the broken skin as gently has she can. He has refused any medication, and she can feel tremors of pain whenever she uses anything but even the lightest touch.

“Just do it,” he says, voice gruff. “Dinna fash about the pain. Just get it done.”

By the time she is through, she is almost shaking from fatigue, and Jamie will not look at her. She’s still not sure if he’s going to be able to keep that hand, but she’s reached the limit of her medical knowledge, and she can’t think of anything more to do.

“Thank ye,” he says, still turned away, clearly wanting to be left alone, and so she stumbles out of the room and nearly bowls Murtagh over.

“How’s the lad?” Murtagh is as gruff as ever, but his daemon is pacing the floor, ears down and whining.

“I did my best,” she says, and the nausea that’s been plaguing her ever since she learned that Jamie was in prison comes back in full force, and she presses a hand against her mouth to stop from being sick.

“That’s all ye can do,” he says, and rests a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll go speak to him.”

*

Jamie’s fever had increased slowly but surely in the hours it took to bind up his hand, and she sets off to see what the monastery’s glass gardens have to offer. 

She’s thinking hard about what best to use - weighing calendula against boneset and yarrow, wondering if the monks will have honey leftover from harvest. She doesn’t want to think about the rest of it, what will happen next. 

“Four weeks, now,” Luthiel says, as she runs a finger down the the brilliant pink of a thistle plant. 

“I know,” she whispers, even though they are alone. She’s never been four _days_ late, never mind four weeks, not since she was a teenager. The fact of the matter is she can stay in the glass gardens for as long as she likes, but at the end of it there will be a child, whether or not her husband is here to meet them.

She cries, then, quickly and quietly, grief and fear pouring from her like a waterfall, and at the end of it she feels as wrung out as old cloth. 

“Onwards and upwards, dear,” Luthiel says, voice thick, but he sounds just like Lamb used to. She laughs, thick and throaty.

“Lead the way,” she says, and they move on through the rows of plants.

*

She wants to tell him more than anything. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have been able to keep it from him for more than a minute. But Murtagh’s words sit in the back of her head, and she sees Jamie’s dull eyes and knows that they are true. He does desperately wish to be dead. Telling him about the baby might keep him with them out of responsibility, but she doesn’t want that. She wants him to fight because _he_ wants to be here.

So instead she asks him to tell her what Randall did to him. And haltingly, he does. 

*

_4 January 1744_

The boat to France takes her mild morning sickness and turns it into almost unbearable torment, and she spends the first hour or so leaning over the railing, heaving helplessly. Jamie isn’t much better off, but he does manage to rub her back and pass her a waterskin when she stops to gasp for breath.

“Yer wame’s as strong as anythin’ when it comes to blood and guts, but ye cannae handle a bit of sea air, it seems.” His tone is mild, bordering on humour, and she leans carefully against him.

“You’re one to talk.” He’s faintly green, still, and he shoots her a small smile. 

She takes a deep breath. “I have something to tell you.” She reaches for his good hand and presses it against her stomach, underneath her navel. He looks at her uncomprehendingly, long fingers automatically stroking at the cloth. “I’m pregnant,” she adds, and watches as a thousand and one emotions flick across his face - happiness, fear, doubt, a strange blankness that makes her stomach tighten, and awe. 

She begins to grow nervous as he keeps silent, and shifts from foot to foot.

“Are you happy?” she asks, voice smaller than she intended, but he smiles. It’s a beautiful smile, the kind she hasn’t seen from him in too long.

“Yes, Sassenach. I’m verra happy,” he says, voice thick, and he sweeps her up into a hug, burying his face in her neck. 

She doesn’t want to hope, not when they are so fragile, but she can’t help it. It fills her all the way down to her marrow, the idea of life here, with this man, who is everything she didn’t even know to hope for.

“So am I,” she says, and she closes her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought! In case you don't visit my tumblr, I post inspirations pics for humans and their daemons in my [daemon headcanon tag](https://fallofrainblog.tumblr.com/tagged/daemon-headcanons)


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